


Human Touch

by Kevin_Mask (Nikolai_Knight)



Category: Kinnikuman
Genre: Affairs, Drama & Romance, F/M, First Time, One Shot, Penis In Vagina Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolai_Knight/pseuds/Kevin_Mask
Summary: Bibimba was alone.The memories of that strike stayed with her, as she questioned her relationship with Suguru, and then - on a rainy night - an old friend paid her a visit: Warsman. In his arms, she would feel love once more.





	Human Touch

_‘Do it, Suguru! Show him the secret weapon.’_

_Mayumi laughed low and loud. He pointed towards Warsman with a straight arm, while his face pulled into a scowl and bloodshot eyes narrowed hard, and Suguru – emboldened by the encouragement – jumped onto the tabletop. It creaked beneath his weight. The tablecloth wrinkled and darkened beneath the soles of his feet, as a dark shadow was cast beneath his muscular form and a low murmur overtook the occupants of the hall._

_Meat stood not far from Mayumi, albeit overshadowed by the adults that towered over his small form. Mr Barracuda stood indifferent on the sidelines, even as a dangerous smirk pulled at his lips and brought a blush to his cheeks. There was a heavy tension in the air. It was impossible to miss tensed muscles, various scowls, high-pitched whimpers, and the cameras whirred and pencils scratched against paper, while the chaos pervaded every square foot of space. Bibimba let loose a meek cry and blinked back tears. Meat cried:_

_‘What are you_ doing _, your highness?’_

_A flex of muscles. A cackle from an expanded chest. Suguru flexed and posed from the tabletop, while Warsman paced and stared with a cold intensity, and only one question lingered between them: who would take the bait? Bibimba swallowed back a lump in her throat. A mewl escaped her lips, as she threw out her hands and grabbed at the hem of Suguru’s shorts, as she tried to coax him back onto the ground. It was difficult to take a hold, as he struggled and fought and pulled, but she clung to him as her lips trembled._

_‘Stop it, you two,’ begged Bibimba._

_‘Move it, you slut!’_

_A callused hand collided with her cheek. The pain was sharp and intense, but – worse than the needle-like sensation against her burning skin – an overwhelming dizziness knocked her off balance, as her vision blacked out for a split second. Bibimba struggled to stand. The weight of her body broke the lightness of her limbs, as she slid onto the floor and braced herself against the table with one arm, and the coldness of the wood grounded her. It brought her back to the chilly reality as the room spun around her and the floor continued to move._

_Silence descended upon the room, even as her heart raced in her chest. It echoed loud and hard. A course of adrenaline ran through every vein. The tears pricked at her eyes and distorted her vision as time stood still . . . struck by her love, humiliated in front of her friends . . . a cold sweat broke over her, sticking her leotard to her flesh. It was as if iced water were doused over her shivering frame. A stray tear rolled down her cheek . . ._

_Warsman lunged for Suguru._

* * *

The shack was still cold.

A crack from the window let in an intense chill; rain pounded against the panes, as a sharp moonbeam broke through and illuminated the meagre possessions, and shadows danced across the walls from outside light sources . . . cars, flashlights, street-lamps . . . no one was ever alone when in the heart of Japan. Bibimba sighed. It took all her strength to stand tall, as she wiped her hands on the pink apron and resumed tidying the small space.

The television flickered with images of various _chojin_. A wall of text would appear beside a still image, before interviews followed and montages concluded, and every hero of late led the life that they always desired . . . a ranch for one, a rugby team for another . . . simple dreams and simple pleasures. Bibimba drew in a shuddered breath, as her hand lightly brushed against her cheek. A few stray tears stained her long lashes. The world went black as she screwed shut her eyes, and her hand slammed down on the off-switch.

Darkness fell. Silence descended. Bibimba let her hand fall limp from the switch, as the screen crackled with static electricity and a pinpoint of colour lingered, and – as she turned her back on the television set – a loud knock  sounded from the door. Bibimba jumped. The draught from the window struck the bare skin of her back, sending goosebumps over her exposed flesh, and she quickly double-checked the strings of the apron. A forced smile broke at the corners of her trembling lips, until she dropped her head and let it fade.

Bibimba darted across the shack, where she flung wide the door. A sharp inhale had the ‘Suguru’ ready to be shouted, with arms already held wide for an embrace, but – as she edged forward – the dark silhouette of a man appeared in place of her beloved. The dark red eyes pierced through the darkness and penetrated the shadows. Bibimba furrowed her brow. It took several seconds for realisation to dawn, as she clasped her hands over her mouth.

“A-Ah, Warsman,” gasped Bibimba.

He stood wet with rain. It ran down his helmet and mask, where it dripped down onto the soft fabric of his shorts and soaked into the leather of his boots, and yet there was not a single shiver or sigh that betrayed his sense of the cold temperatures. The red of his eyes was softened and narrowed, as if he winced beneath his mask or strived to hold back tears. Bibimba lifted her hand and brushed his cheek. It was a gentle touch with the backs of her knuckles, as a sincere smile broke across her features, and Warsman whispered:

“Did I arrive at an inconvenient time?”

“N-No, it’s not inconvenient at all.” Bibimba blushed. “I just agreed to do some tidying for Suguru while he was away . . . his – his father wanted to celebrate his victory at the finals, and I – I guess I just needed some time alone to think and process what happened. I didn’t expect to see you here. Is everything alright? Do you need me to call Robin?”

Warsman flinched. He turned his head away from her hand. A soft _‘oh’_ escaped her lips, as she lowered her gaze with a frown and rapidly blinked, but – with a chuckle – his callused fingers took her chin and forced her to lock eyes with him once again. The tears he bore were barely visible, as the rain stole them away and erased all traces, but her tears . . . brimming, wild, distorting her sight . . . remained visible for him to see across her features.

“Bibimba,” asked Warsman. “Do you mind if I come inside?”

A heavy blush darkened her soft skin. Bibimba nodded and stepped aside, careful to smooth out her apron and hold it tight at the sides. It brought more blushes, as she angled her body carefully while he walked inside, and – hiding the exposed skin of her back and behind – Bibimba closed the door behind him with a loud click. He trailed water behind him. It dripped onto the wood below, enough that her stomach rolled and a lump formed in her throat.

The disappointment must have been apparent, as he at once apologised and froze to the spot with feet pressed together . . . _tense muscles, wide eyes, fast breaths_. . . a swell of nausea brought bile to her throat as she recognised a primal emotion: fear. Bibimba forced a smile and snatched a towel from the sideboard, before dashing before him and gently dabbing down his armour and muscles. He flinched away with each touch. A few bruises were visible just beneath the armour on his back. Bibimba continued to wipe him down, as she chirped:

“Sorry, I’m – er – not dressed for company . . .”

Warsman cast his eyes over her form. The blush on her cheeks darkened again, until the skin burned and her head grew dizzy, and his eyes roamed as if seeing her for the first time, until they lingered on smooth and toned legs that stretched on forever. Bibimba tugged at the bottom of the apron, but it only lowered the top portion and exposed a line of cleavage. A low chuckle escaped Warsman, who took the towel and wiped himself down, before he found a comfortable place to sit beside the unrolled _futon_. He carefully folded the towel and said:

“I promise I shall not look without your consent.”

“O-Oh, I know,” said Bibimba. “I trust you. It’s just that Suguru told me that I shouldn’t be caught around the house in just an apron . . . I – I know it’s not appropriate, but I had nothing to wear that time and I got caught in the rain this time and -! I just . . . well . . . I guess I just didn’t want you to judge me or yell at me. I really value your opinion, Warsman.”

“Does Kinnikuman often judge you, Bibimba?”

“He did a lot, at least at first. I sometimes think that the attack by Gonta wasn’t accidental, like Suguru was trying to scare me away from Earth, and it sometimes feels like nothing I do is good enough . . . it’s why I appreciated our friendship so much. I think – I think I saw in you a piece of myself.  You were just someone trying so hard to please someone they loved, but always falling short, and you were _kind_ to me, too. You were kind.”

“I do not feel that I was kind enough.” Warsman toyed with the towel edges. “I will always love and respect Robin for how he rescued me, but he never believed in me as you believed in me and he never paid me compliments as you paid me compliments. I have spent a lifetime being bullied and used and laughed at, but even when you saw my face . . . you did not laugh.”

“Why would I have laughed?”

“Why would you have _not_ laughed at me?”

Warsman handed her the towel. It was a simple gesture, but Bibimba smiled and held the towel close to her chest . . . no one had helped her in her chores before. Bibimba sat on the edge of the futon, with her feet curled to her side, as she placed the towel on the floor and brushed her fingers over the floorboards. They remained side-by-side, even as he shook his head at the offer of a pillow. Not once did he break his word, as he never so much as tried to steal a glance at her exposed back, and yet his eyes remained locked with her gaze.  

“They shouldn’t have laughed,” whispered Bibimba.

A low scoff was the only response. Bibimba pursed her lips into a tight line, as her heart raced and the cold draught brought a shiver to her body, and – with teeth diving into her lower lip – the taste of iron flooded over her tongue. It took all her strength to slide her hand between them. Bibimba closed her eyes. There was no other sound than her beating heart, until there finally followed a rustle as he slid his hand over hers in turn. The skin was warm and organic, nothing like what others teased or claimed, and he squeezed and sighed.

“Robin hit me,” said Warsman.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I –”

“It was not during our usual sessions.”

Bibimba gasped. The words fell dead on her lips, as her mouth fell open and her eyebrows knitted together, and – as she spluttered and stuttered for some sort of response – Warsman half-closed his eyes and lowered his head, before he slowly pulled his hand back. _Fear_. Bibimba quickly snatched at his hand, before pulling it onto her lap. The only thing separating his touch from her thigh was the thin fabric of the apron, and yet she entwined their fingers and placed her free hand on the back of his, as she asked in a choked voice:

“So he . . . regularly hits you?”

“It is usually with my consent, but yes.” Warsman shrugged. “We are not in a romantic or sexual relationship, no matter what others may claim, and I did not object to him striking me in his role as my trainer, as there were times when it was necessary. If I were to be a trainer to another, I would not rule out a strike in extreme circumstances. Still, I have needs that cannot be met elsewhere, and – as a friend – he has been willing to aid me in them . . .

“There is a pain inside that I cannot erase. I hear the voices of those that hurt me, running over and over in my mind, but – worse – I hear my own voice echoing in my mind . . . it agrees with them, it knows they are right . . . I do not want to _be_ a monster. Robin taught me that was all I was and all I could be, which was freeing at the time.

“I no longer had to fear what I could become, as I embraced the reality of what I was, and there was a purpose in knowing I existed to exact revenge on his behalf. I no longer feared making the wrong choice, or doing the wrong thing, as there was someone to dictate my life for me and all responsibility would fall into their hands. I was somehow free in my bonds.

“Then you came along, reminding me that I had a human side. I remembered how I always wanted to be better and kinder and someone with . . . friends. I turned away from giving into my pain, but instead now I must _fight_ that pain. I feel I must be punished for all the evils I have done, and I feel that a physical pain is at least a pain I can control, something in my grasp unlike all the rest, and it is a manifestation . . . an expression . . . I can be heard.”

The hand held tight and refused to let loose. He gripped with strength only possible to a robo-chojin, while he hunched forward and dropped his head to his chest, and with a gentle touch, she used her free hand to coax his armour and boots from him. It was a difficult task. He would not let go even for a second, as if he might loose himself by loosing her, and at times he was forced to use a hand to help in her efforts to make him more comfortable. Bibimba awkwardly folded his clothes, while he sat in just his shorts and mask with helmet.

“You want someone to hear you,” said Bibimba.

A short nod sent a strange shadow about the room. The moonbeam caught off the top of his helmet, and – with a low sigh – he awkwardly removed the headpiece, which made the black metal shine with a chromatic glow, before he dropped the helmet to the ground. Bibimba gasped to see a mane of shaggy blond hair. It was far from what she expected, but so strangely human and at odds with the robotic nature of his facial mask. He rested one hand on the helmet and the other held tight to her hand. Warsman continued with a hushed voice.

“Even if they do not see the wounds he makes, _I_ know that they are there.” Warsman hummed. “It brings a sense of peace, as if I can say that my pain is finally real, and I can wear that with pride, as it is something I can control and treat _or_ ignore and worsen . . . it is my wound, a reflection of the wound I feel inside, but at least the outside does heal over time.”

“So you let him whip you as a form of self-harm?”

“I gain from it, but so does Robin. He has a great deal of anger, while Alisa does not enjoy pain and refuses to engage in his need to dominate, and so he needs an outlet for all the aggression and rage that builds inside him. He likes to feel powerful.”

Bibimba sniffed. A cold realisation dawned, as she leaned against his shoulder. The soft brown locks of her hair fell down her exposed back, while a few locks mixed in with the blond as he rested his head upon hers, and together they breathed and basked in the silence of the shack. Bibimba wrapped her arm around his, while she cuddled against him and relished in the warmth of another person, and he pressed a soft and chaste ‘kiss’ to the crown of her head. A tear ran down her cheek and dropped onto the pink fabric of the apron, as she asked:

“Is that why Suguru hit me? To feel powerful?”

“I think he hit you as he had emotions he could not process,” said Warsman. “He thought we were having an affair, as such he felt betrayed and rejected and worthless. If he hit you, it was part of his desire to find someone to blame, for an external and objective cause would mean that the fault would not lie with him. He thus sought to punish you.”

“That doesn’t make it _right_. Even if I had slept with you . . .”

“. . . no one deserves to be hurt or humiliated.”

The tears fell fast and free. Warsman pulled his hand away, only to wrap them around her back and pull her close, and soon she was grasping at his shoulders, while she wept into the crook of his neck with choked and wracked sobs. The swell of her buttocks and the curve of her back were likely exposed to his gaze, but he said nothing and made no sign that he saw anything beyond a woman in need of comfort. Bibimba pulled partially away, so that she could cup his cheek and brush her thumb lightly against where his lips should have rested.

A warm breath heated the metal against her thumb, while he nuzzled against her palm. In his eyes there was longing and desire . . . a need to be seen, a need to connect with another human . . . a need to be wanted, a need to feel something, a need to _be_ something . . . Bibimba felt it, too, deep in her core. The way her heart fluttered was a feeling unlike any other. The way her mouth ran dry, the way her skin broke into a sweat despite the cold . . .

“You don’t deserve to be hurt either,” said Bibimba.

Bibimba pressed a kiss beneath his jaw. It lingered with her lips barely in contact with the dark brown skin, before she trailed a series of kisses towards his ear, where she gently nibbled against the soft lobe nestled within the blond locks. He drew in a sharp breath. The tears still stained her cheeks, as she pressed against him and this time blew warm air into his ear, before running her tongue around the outside in a half-teasing manner.

The rough hands against her back slid upwards. He grasped at her shoulders, as if unsure where to touch and afraid to break her boundaries, but his back arched and his neck tilted for ease of access, as she returned to placing dozens of kisses along his neck. A few heavy breaths escaped him, while his fingers pawed and pulled at her skin. He fidgeted from side to side, while caught between reciprocating and refusing, and he audibly swallowed as she kissed at his mask and sat astride his lap with a low moan. Warsman growled.

Bibimba let loose a high-pitched squeak, as his hands fumbled with the string of her apron, and his cold mask pressed itself over her neck in imitation of her kisses, before those same rough fingers ran in erratic patterns over every inch of her back. It was passionate, yet desperate . . . they pressed their foreheads together. Bibimba slowly reached for his mask, while she panted for breath, and their eyes locked for several seconds.

“I want to see you, Warsman,” whispered Bibimba.

He nodded. Bibimba gently slid from his lap, where – with a blush – she dropped her gaze on the bulge to his black shorts that made clear his interest. He awkwardly made his way onto the futon . . . _where Suguru slept, where Suguru ate . . ._ Warsman lay down with perfect posture, with one leg raised and a slight arc to the back. He slowly reached for his mask, which he removed slowly and steadily with an expert touch. It came away with a click.

It broke her heart to see him look away, where his blond locks fell to shadow his face. The one organic eye shimmered with tears, while his mouth area bore ventilation flaps that moved in an unsteady rhythm in time with his trembling breaths, and his hands visibly shivered as he placed his mask to one side. Bibimba smiled and crawled over to him, before she lay at his side and trailed the backs of her fingers down his cheek . . . the mixture of organic and metallic materials was disconcerting, but it was a reminder of the sheer trust involved . . .

A tear fell from his eye. Bibimba kissed it away, while whispering all the while . . . _‘you’re so handsome’ . . . ‘please, never change a thing’_. . . Bibimba kissed along his collarbone and jawbone, before letting her lips linger upon the ventilation slants. They opened in full, while a tongue slid out and wrought a gasp from her lips. It was a strange kiss. There were no lips for hers to meet, but still the tongue toyed with hers and coaxed her to arousal.

“Call me ‘Nikolai’,” pleaded Warsman.

It took all her strength to pull away from the kiss, as their tongues parted and her bruised lips puckered and pursed in hopes of more. It was such a perfect intimacy . . . _gentle, slow, an exploration of each others mouths . . ._ no slurps or squelches to which Suguru was prone, always breaking the mood with constant sounds . . . just touches and pleasure. A heat gathered in her loins, as they throbbed and grew wet with anticipation.

Bibimba lifted the apron over her head. It was tossed to the side, where it landed crumpled beneath the window that let through the bright moonlight, and the light caught at her skin, giving it an ethereal glow and highlighting its perfect nature. Bibimba instinctively raised her arms to cover her breasts . . . large nipples stood erect and begged for attention, while – despite the ample size and spherical nature – brought a blush to her cheeks, as she feared he would judge the slight sag or the almost imperceptible stretch-marks to the undersides.

A tear fell from Warsman again.

This time, it was his turn to utter the word ‘beautiful’. He gently moved aside her arms, while his eye focussed on them and his tongue licked at the metallic rim of his mouth, and slowly . . . _focussed, appreciative, desiring . . ._ he devoured the slight swell over her flat stomach, the tuft of natural hair that led to her private area, and even the toned muscles of her long legs. Bibimba bit into her lip and swallowed hard. He carefully guided her down onto the futon, before he lay over her with his weight braced on his forearms. Bibimba gasped:

“I – I want you to see me, too. I – I know it’s not the same, but . . .”

“You are beautiful,” gasped Warsman.

“Do you think so? I know you could do better, but I –”

Bibimba was silenced with a kiss. The tongue invaded her mouth and stole her breath, as it explored every inch and entangled with hers, and – mewling into the kiss – Bibimba closed her eyes and instinctively parted her thighs, as her legs wrapped around his waist. It pulled their parts flush against one another, with only his shorts to provide any protection. He ground against her clitoris. A loud cry escaped her lips, as she threw back her head.

They continued to thrust against one another, as they clumsily kissed and hands roamed. Warsman groaned and pulled back. Bibimba – flushed and breathless – furrowed her brow and opened her mouth, but all words were lost as he descended upon her nipple. Intense pleasure coursed through her, as he suckled with some pressure and gently ran his tongue over and around the hardening nub, and every so often his tongue would rapidly flit, before alternating with hard sucks and gentle licks. It forced her legs apart all the more.

It was instinct. The tingling and throbbing below intensified, as her hands buried themselves in his hair and tugged him closed for more contact, and his rough hands toyed with her other nipple, while the body of his hand massaged the breast itself. Bibimba kicked at the hem of his shorts, desperate to lower them and gain a greater closeness, but – no matter how she tried – they would not lower. Warsman chuckled. He freed one hand, while moving his mouth to the now free breast, and slid it down her side until it reached their private areas.

He tugged at his shorts, before freeing his member. Bibimba gasped. It took all her strength to prop herself up on her shoulders, before gazing down between them, and seeing his uncircumcised length that wept at the head with pure arousal. The length was more than she expected, especially having never seen a member before, and a part of her feared whether it would fit inside her and how it would feel filling her to the brim. Warsman gasped:

“Am I moving too fast?”

“I think it’s moving just right,” promised Bibimba.

Bibimba pulled him back upward, so that she could deliver another kiss. It lasted until both were forced to part for air, but even then each kissed every inch of skin within reach, and – unable to be parted a second longer – the kiss to the mouth returned once more. Warsman worked and fondled her chest, while she mewled and moaned and used the heels of her feet to pull him against her, and strove to gain further contact . . . the warmth, the touch . . .

The head pressed against her hole, almost like it was made for her, and the tip was such a perfect fit that she was forced to break the kiss . . . head thrown back, mouth wide open, and choking on saliva . . . her insides clenched in anticipation of  being filled. It was a strange kind of warmth, with the skin so impossibly smooth. The weeping slit mixed with her juices, adding to the natural lubrication, and she clawed at his shoulders and blond locks, as she tried to get him further inside. He refused to budge an inch. He locked eyes with her and asked:

“May I, Bibimba?”

It was her turn to nod. He nodded back. The length of his penis moved slowly inside, drawing out a loud gasp from her breathless lungs, as she felt it spread her inner walls and fill her to completion, and yet – the further it went – the more nervousness struck . . . _this was her first time_. Bibimba clenched. The muscles in her body tensed, as her nails dug into his shoulders and her teeth clenched. He paused. It was halfway within her, so warm and firm and such an indescribable sensation, and her walls fluttered around him with an irregular rhythm.

“I –I’m okay,” said Bibimba.

“I do – I do not . . .” Warsman moaned against her neck. “I do not have any experience in this, but I believe that there will be no pain or ‘breaking’ of the hymen, a-at least so long as you maintain arousal and stay relaxed. I – I will only go at your pace. You were my first friend and my first lover. If this is too fast for you, you – you only need to say, my love.”

“It’s okay, Nikolai. It’s a little sore, but it feels . . . it feels so _good_. Can you -? Can you maybe – ah – play with my . . . my . . . my chest again?” Bibimba blushed and blinked back tears. “Ah, you d-don’t have to, but it felt so good, and I just thought –”

“I am inside you and you struggle to ask for what you want?”

“I’m – I’m sorry,” whispered Bibimba.

A low chuckle escaped his mouth. He gently lifted her legs, bracing them in the crooks of his arms, and – refusing to pull in or out, as she adjusted to his girth – leaned back down to take her nipple into his mouth. It sent a wave of pleasure through her, as she returned to gasping and panting and grasping at his blond locks. He worked at her chest with one free hand, but the other . . . the other drifted down, running through her trimmed curls, and touched against her clitoris . . . a light press in firm – but slow – circles. Bibimba cried out with tears.

 _It felt so good_! Bibimba barely noticed as he slid all the way inside, not when his callused thumb flicked with impossible speed back and forth, and the light touch and speed combined was enough that sparks of electricity coursed through every vein and nerve. A series of strange sounds escaped her, before she yanked Warsman upward and kissed him with sloppy and clumsy movements of tongue and mouth. The pleasure distracted from her skill.

“N-Nikolai,” mewled Bibimba. “Nikolai!”

He slowly pulled out and pushed back. The little rolls of his hips brought a pressure against her clitoris, as he ground down with his pubic bone, and his hand returned to her breast, as he played with the nipple and kissed her until they could kiss no more. It was difficult to breathe through the pleasure, as he angled and strove to press against her g-spot, and his member brushed against her smooth channel and filled her to the brim. They held their mouths against one another, sharing in breath, while each one moaned and panted and gasped.

Warsman picked up a fast rhythm, occasionally pausing when she winced in a struggle to adjust, and – with many apologies and kisses – Bibimba would feel her heart swell with love and respect, until she could only beg him to continue. It started slow . . . gentle . . . soon it was not enough and they slammed against one another, pounding and desperate and forever seeking more as the delicious friction inside provided more than she could endure.

There was a whisper in her ear . . . _‘I’m close, Bibimba’_. . . a hand awkwardly squeezed between them, as his finger and thumb took the folds around her clitoris and moved in rapid – yet opposite – circles, so that the constant friction only added to her pleasure. It brought her closer in turn, bringing her to the edge . . . _‘I will not come without you’_ . . . he was interested in her enjoyment, fascinated by their intimacy, and no one else wanted her like he wanted her in these moments. Tears pricked at her eyes, as she choked on her growing ecstasy.

“Oh God, Warsman,” moaned Bibimba. “I love you!”

 _It was too much_! Bibimba screamed out, as her nails raked down his back. Every clench of her inner walls reminded her of his presence, while his warm muscles wrapped around her smaller frame and kept her safe within his arms, and – tears falling free – sparks of colour darted about her vision. The world ceased to exist, as Warsman was all that mattered. Bibimba grew weak and faint. All breath left her, while her legs tightened like a vice about his waist, and her back arched until it ached with pain mixed with the orgasmic bliss.

A rush of liquid flooded her from within. Warsman’s hand froze above her clitoris, while the other clung to her shoulder until it bruised, and a choked – yet otherwise silent – groan emitted from his lips and vibrated through his chest. He collapsed upon her prone form. It was a heavy weight, yet it was one she would willingly bear again, as come leaked out from the sides of her reddened hole. Bibimba squeezed her walls with a smile.

He remained inside her, even as he panted for breath against her neck. Bibimba closed her eyes, as the beautiful afterglow washed over her with an indescribable bliss, and her fingertips traced slow and lazy patterns against his back, while she relished in the warmth that broke against her sweat-soaked skin. The sheets of the futon stuck to her back, while her legs fell loose and their skin made a sticky sound as Warsman rolled onto his back, and Bibimba – with member sliding loose from her hole – curled up beside him. Bibimba smiled.

“I did not hurt you, did I?” Warsman asked.

Bibimba rested her head upon his heart. It raced to a scary amount, but it was proof that he was alive and that this was real, and nothing – and no one – could ever take that from them, as they basked in the aftermath in the light of the moon. Only the stars lay witness to their love through those dirty windowpanes, and the sore ache to her private parts would remind her for the night and day to come of their consummation. Bibimba kissed his cheek. He was warm, as if he were blushing, and – through tears of happiness – she whispered:

“I’ve never felt more alive . . .”


End file.
